A Shared Fate
by Ashley A
Summary: Conversations and thoughts shared between new friends.


Spoiler content:  High.

A little added scene from the film.  Set after the Knights have rescued Guinevere from the Honorius estate.  Also, some changes have been made to the events of the film.  Just bear with me!

Nope, still don't own them.  sob

Rated Pg

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_I want peace, Lancelot.  I've had enough._

_I will die in battle.  Of that I am certain…burn me.  Burn me and cast my ashes to a strong East wind._

_For the sake of our friendship._

_It was my life to be taken!  Not this!  Never this!_

_My brave knights, I have failed you.  I have neither gotten you off this island…nor shared your fate._

            Lancelot's forehead drips sweat, even though the temperature out of doors has reached freezing.

            His large charger is nervous, dancing along beside the cart carrying the recovering boy and young woman.

            He keeps shooting glances her way, watching as she fiddles with the new bandages Arthur has placed on her fingers after resetting them.  He wants to say something to her, something to reassure her, but he can't find the words.

            He's so used to being a cad and a lover, that when simple, even conversation comes up, he's at a loss.

            Who is he, really?  He's bedded many a maid, but no one understands Lancelot's true self more than Arthur.  And Arthur himself has become besotted with the young woman.  Lancelot is not going to ask his old friend for advice in this situation.

            "What are you looking at?"

            Her voice is growly and scratchy, issuing from a throat not used to doing anything but screaming in pain.

            Lancelot starts, and immediately pastes on a flirty smile.

            "Nothing, lady, but your eyes.  They match the sky."

            "And yours are the color of horse droppings."

            A rough bark of a laugh rolls it's way out of Lancelot's mouth, and he reigns in slightly, riding abreast of the young woman so he can speak to her.

            "I believe you are feeling better, yes?" he asks her, not unkindly, and she nods once.

            "I am sir, and I thank you for your concern.  What progress do we make?"

            "Slow progress.  We are making for the mountains to the east- there is a pass there.  It is the only way.  The Saxons are cutting us off in other directions."

            "Saxon," she says slowly, grinding her teeth around the word.  "Conquerors with less mercy than our Roman 'guests'."

            "Aye, lady, you have it in one.  Have you run into Saxon trouble before?" His horse has slowed to a walk, and the woman has moved to the front of the cart, better to hear him.  He keeps his eyes level on her face, trying to ignore and failing soundly her emaciated body and blue tinged skin.  He leaves his horse to follow the cart, stepping easily over to the vacant seat next her.  Removing his cloak, he drapes it around her shoulders.

            "Your skin is a bad color.  This should help.  Gods, this accursed country.  When it's not snowing, it's raining.  Or some other unpleasant weather."  His mail clad arms attract snow and ice, and the metal wrist sheaths he's wearing begin to form little icicles on them.  He bangs his hands together to keep some feeling in his limbs.

            "Thank you," she says tiredly, and he can tell she's exhausted.  Most of her words up until now to him and to Arthur have been curt and untrusting. 

            "As to your question, I personally have not had the pleasure of Saxon contact, but my father and family…they talk of them as mortal enemies.  I can only believe them," she shrugs as she answers.

            "How long have you…were you at the estate?" Lancelot asks.  She doesn't meet his eyes, squinting ahead, where Lancelot can see Arthur has stopped, his head tilted back, watching them together.  Lancelot feels the beginnings of guilt, but he pushes it back down.  His friend has no claim on the girl.  Not yet, anyway.

            "As long as I can remember," she states simply.  "I try to think back to where I was when I first arrived there…and now, after so many weeks in…that place, I cannot honestly remember."

            She turns her face toward him, and he hurts to see the tears standing in her eyes.  Without thinking, he reaches a hand toward her, brushing one away with the pad of his glove covered thumb.  Their gazes lock, and his hand wavers around her face, like a traveler given water after thirsting his whole life.

            "You are Sarmatian, are you not?" she asks, and the moment is gone.  Lancelot blinks his eyes, and turns back to the road, a chill setting in his bones that has nothing to do with the cold.

            "Aye, lady, but long gone."

            She rests her chin in her damaged hand, hissing only slightly at the contact.  He looks at her, a frown drawing his dark eyebrows together. 

            "You should be resting.  Here, let me help you back into the cart," he starts, but she brushes him off, some of the fire coming back into her expression.

            "I thank you, but I am fine for the moment.  I can move if I wish it."

            "I have no doubt of that," Lancelot answers, smirking a bit.  The moment that had passed between them has unnerved him, and he covers up his jitteryness with a false bravado he's used to slipping on like a familiar cloak.

            "Tell me what you remember of your home.  Was it so different than this land?" the girl asks, and he cocks his head, his curly hair falling into his eyes.  He brushes it back impatiently, and sighs.

            "So different.  And yet not.  I do not remember much of it, I was very young when I was conscripted."  His answer is curt; in truth the only things he remembers of his home are his mother's sad face, and his father's shout to him as he rode away with the other young boys of his village.  "Very green, very hilly, and such a distant memory as to be almost a dream."

            "You have been here at the Wall for fifteen years?" she adds.  He nods, surprised.  "How did you know that?" he asks her.

            "I know much of you knights," she answers, tilting her head toward his.  "My father told me of you.  Of the servant knights who do Rome's bidding, and of their Briton commander who kills his own people.  Tales of such bravado that they could not be true.  Yet here you are," she finishes simply.

            "We are not servants," Lancelot says, ire making his voice rough.  "We were forced into duty by an old agreement, and have no choice.  But we are respected as knights.  I bow to no man or god, save one."

            "And that one, is he worth it?" the young woman asks, and they both cast their eyes to the front of the caravan, where Arthur and Bors ride in tandem, Arthur silent and still as a stone.

            "Aye, lady."

            She nods, and he doesn't feel the need to explain any further.  He can barely understand his relationship with Arthur, let alone explain it to anyone else.

            Arthur reigns in his horse, and the caravan slows to a stop.  He looks back over his shoulder, and Lancelot remounts his horse, no communication needed between commander and knights.

            "I must see to my duty," Lancelot says, and is surprised by the feeling of disappointment that fills him at the thought that their short conversation is over.

            "Of course," she answers, a bit cheekily.  He frowns, and unsheathes one of the two swords set on his back.  Holding it at the ready, he spurs his horse, then without warning, wheels back to where she is sitting on the buckboard.

            "What is your name?" he asks her.

            "Guinevere," she tells him, and he executes the best bow he can from the seat of his horse.

            "I am Lancelot, and you may call on me at anytime," he says, "should you need help moving."  He grins at her, and now it's her turn to frown.

            "Do not wait for that, Sir Knight, for if you do, you may be left on the trail alone."

            His grin spreads further, and he clucks to his horse, which rears slightly, and heads back toward Arthur and the others.

            "How is she?" Arthur asks as Lancelot rides up, his sword laying across his lap. 

            "Healing, and extremely impudant," Lancelot smirks.  "I may have to discuss that further with her."

            Arthur stares at his old friend, and shakes his head.

            "We have no time for frivolity, Lancelot.  Gather the people.  We shall take shelter in those trees for the night," Arthur commands, his forceful green eyes flashing.  He turns his horse, and rides back toward the cart Guinevere and the boy are resting in.

            "No time…bah!" Lancelot says under his breath.  "We have no time for frivolity, yet we have time to save herds of strangers from Saxon invaders?"  His horse stamps uneasily, and the sound of war drums reaches his ears.  He glances up sharply, and watches as the trees bend in the wind, a strong east wind that almost snaps some of the boughs.

            He rides quickly around the edge of the caravan, moving people as swiftly as he can into circles inside the ring of trees at the border of the forest.

            An hour later, and everyone is bedded down and as comfortable as possible.

            Lancelot would normally eat with his comrades, but his mood tonight has suddenly soured, and he doesn't care to have to joke with them right at this moment.

            He volunteers for first watch, and ignores Arthur's inquisitive look as he grumpily gathers up his weapons and takes a seat on a stump at the perimiter of their camp.

            Not uncoincidentally is his post right across from where the Roman lady Fulcinia is tending to Guinevere in her cart.

            He tries not to watch, but can't look away.  Her skin glows in the night like a beacon, and he stares entranced as the older woman washes the younger woman's naked back. 

            Guinevere flips her hair over one shoulder, and looks up just as Lancelot has begun to look away.  Their eyes lock, and his body stills.  She finally looks back down, breaking the spell, and he clears his throat, distracting himself by building up a small fire to keep himself from freezing as he watches the others sleep.

            A hour later, and he's staring off into the trees, snow falling gently.  Which should be a pretty picture, but it's not.  He's been counting the days until getting off this accursed island, and now…he's not so sure.

            A twig snaps behind him, and he's on his feet, double swords dangerous in his dextrous hands.

            The lady he's been trying to banish from his thoughts, now cleaner than before and dressed in more than rags, steps up next to him, and seats herself on another log by his fire.  She puts her chin in her hand, and doesn't look at him.

            "You should be sleeping," he says finally, softly, sliding one of his sharp blades back in it's sheath.  She shrugs slightly, and speaks.

            "I cannot.  My mind keeps playing tricks on me in this place.  I belong to this country, but sometimes she is not the best of friends to me."

            Lancelot gestures to his own head, his mop of unruly black locks now coated in white.  His goatee has a matching layer of ice.

            "The mind can be a trickster sometimes…you have to learn when to ignore it."

            She laughs, and tilts her head to face him.  He draws a sharp breath inwards, discovering her eyes are actually grey and as empty as his own feel most of the time.

            "Surely your own mind is never against you, Lancelot.  You seem very confidant to me."

            He sighs, shaking his head.  "Oh, lady, I wish that were true.  I am a human man, like any other.  I have a difficult duty to perform, but I have the same doubts and fears as anyone," he says, shocked that the words he's only ever shared with one other person have come to the forefront so easily with her.

            "I have the feeling you do not tell many people that," she says, murmuring the words so none that happen to be awake can hear her.  He turns his body to face her.

            "None save one."  He hefts the blade he has left unsheathed, watching as the light from the fire plays off it's hilt.

            "Have you served with him the whole time?" she asks.

            "Yes.  All of us have.  We were once a large and impressive force of one hundred hand picked soldiers.  Now, there are only the six of us.  Time and battle have worked their will on the knights of Artorius Castus," he answers simply.  It is a sad truth, but the truth nonetheless.

            "Arthur," she breathes, and he nods.  "He is a curiosity to me.  A Briton who slaughters his own kind…and yet he holds his mission back to save a few scraggly people from death he knows naught about.  Explain him to me."

            Lancelot snorts a laugh.  "Lady, if I could do that, I would be working magic of my own.  He is not explainable, not in the time we have tonight at any accord."

            "You love him," she says suddenly.  Lancelot starts so violently he almost topples off his small perch.

            "I what?" he sputters.  She moves to the edge of her log, close enough for Lancelot to see the snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.

            "You love him, do you not?  Brother in arms, commander, comrade.  He is your leader, and your lifelong friend."

            "…yes," he answers after a moment. 

            "I think he would not know what to do without you with him," she states.  "I have seen the way you look at each other when making descisions, and I see how you both ache when you disagree.  It seems you can almost read each other's minds.  You must know him like no other."

            "Aye, milady, but why do you ask?" Lancelot replies, truly confused.

            "I wish to understand him, is all.  And you seem the right person to ask."

            Lancelot's guts do a little twist, and his previous sour mood shows it's head again.

            "If you wish to understand, why not ask him yourself?  I see the way he looks at you," he mocks, and she frowns.

            "Why do you sound this way?  I have a right to ask about my saviors, do I not?"

            The dark haired knight stands, shoving his sword back into the empty sheath across his back.  "It is Arthur's turn for the watch, so mayhap you can ask him yourself," he says flatly, and turns to wake the other man, gasping as he almost walks straight into Arthur, who is approaching with silent feet.

            "Ask him what?" Arthur says, his own hair coated in a fine dusting of powdery snow.

            "Ask her," Lancelot says.  He turns to face the ring of trees at his back.  "The wind has returned," he adds.  "From the east.  It seems stronger than earlier."  His hair begins to blow, and sheds its layer of ice.  He resists the urge to clutch his borrowed cloak about him.

            "Nothing to report, Arthur.  Everything is quiet.  I take my leave of you," Lancelot says, staring into the east wind until his eyes tear at its harshness.

            "Sleep well, my friend," Arthur says gently, touching Lancelot on the neck with his gloved hand.  The younger knight nods.

            "I will hope for it, but not expect it," he states, and Arthur gazes at him curiously.

            "We leave at first light," Arthur answers, and without sparing a glance for Guinevere, who sits at the fire still, Lancelot whirls on his booted heel and strides away.

            As he settles down next to the other snoring knights, Lancelot refuses to think of what Arthur and Guinevere could possibly be talking about, and instead concentrates on the feel of the wind on his face.

            He holds his eyes open as long as he can, feeling the burn as they get overly dry.  He finally claps them shut, and as he slips into restless sleep, begins to dream of his lost home, conflicted emotions, and the green eyes of his closest friend in the world, which will haunt him with their intensity til the day he dies. 

            The falling snow blankets his body, and as his armor begins to freeze, he warms himself with dreams of her face, her smile, and her skin on his.

            A dream, yes.  Perhaps a reality. 

            He will see.  And secretly he hopes that the idea of his own death in battle may be a false one. 

He has added a reason to go on living now, even though he knows he will never tell either of them the truth of it.

He does love Arthur.  He prays he doesn't have to choose between that love and the possibility of a new one.

Ice cracks and falls from the trees above them, and the wind roars on, mindless in its potency.

Fin.


End file.
